String Theory

Chapter 6

Harry's house is old, covered in rose-colored plaster, with a few neatly trimmed bushes decorating the walkway to the door. It's just a streethouse, barely tucked away from the heavy London traffic and kept company by a few other small, awkwardly shaped homes. Merlin has always insisted that Harry could do better — perhaps an elegant Victorian home in the countryside, or a more modern inner-city flat closer to the shop. But Harry, ever a creature of habit, has owned this house since 2007, and he's not going to change his ways anytime soon. He likes to sit out in the sun and listen to the gentle rumble of traffic, and he likes the paper at his doorstep every morning. He particularly likes the expressiveness of his house. Harry always claims his house is alive, and Merlin, purveyor of disappointment, insists that it's hogwash. "A house is a house, Harry," he would slur, one glass shy of wasted. "House's a house is a house. 'S no' alive." Harry would just smile a little, offer Merlin his guest bed for the night, and keep his thoughts to himself.

It is alive, in a way. Like any other house, it creaks when it's windy, but every so often, despite the night being perfectly calm, the house offers a quiet, strained groan. It's as if it can feel Harry's sadness, and it empathizes with him. In the mornings, the sunlight is warm, dancing through the windows and illuminating his butterfly display cases. Greyer weather is just as welcome; the rain patters the glass in a therapeutic rhythm, and somehow, it always convinces him to skip the bourbon for tonight, and settle for a cup of tea instead.

When Eggsy came into his life, the atmosphere of the house had changed, just as it had changed with Eggsy's father, Lee. It was almost imperceptible with Lee, but Harry noticed it. The light danced differently, the chairs had a new squeak, and even Mr. Pickle, who was alive at the time, found a new favorite place to sleep. It was a comfortable shift - as if the missing piece to Harry's puzzle had been found underneath his sofa. A sense of completion, perhaps. The same phenomenon happened with Eggsy, but a bit more abrupt and noticeable. It simply meant another empty room filled, and another puzzle piece found. Now, instead of just warm sunlight, Harry had new sounds to wake up to; footsteps creaking in the hallway, muffled music, or pans clanging together downstairs. Eggsy's was a completely new lifestyle to adjust to, but Harry wasn't complaining. He never dared to call Eggsy his son, but a part of him wondered if that's how parenting felt.

Whether or not Harry could do better, this is his home, Lee's home, and Eggsy's home, too. He always quite liked coming back to it at the end of the day, but now that it's empty again, he feels a wave of pain wash over him at the sight of the old thing.

Both Unwins are dead, and his puzzle remains unfinished.

Now, Harry feels uneasy. There's an unfamiliar car parked on the street, and Harry's guard goes up. The second tip is the unlocked door. He never leaves it unlocked— not with his job, and not with what happened to his last house when he left it unattended. When Harry puts the key in the lock and finds it already rotated fully, his hand immediately goes to the pistol resting inside its holster. He pushes the door open without a sound, gun loaded and held at eye level. He's careful to sidestep the louder floorboards, moving in complete silence.

He rounds the hallway. In the kitchen, a man is sitting at his table, nursing a glass of whiskey. Harry levels the gun at his head and takes another hesitant step. As he does, recognition hits him, and he sucks in a ragged breath. He feels like he's been shot.

It's been ten years, but Harry would recognize Tony Stark anywhere. He lowers his gun, disbelief apparent in his voice. "Tony?"

Tony looks up from his glass, and Harry can't tell if that's disappointment in his eyes, or gratitude. To be honest, Tony doesn't know what it is, either. Half of him is elated. Ten years since he'd seen Harry, and here he is, a real-life Lazarus — a little more gray in his hair, and one of his eyes scarred over and covered by a patch. Older, a little worse for wear, but still very much alive. It's more than Tony can say about most of his friends right now.